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When asked to help prepare dinner, one son would run for the yard to pull up arms full of mallow, to see if it were clear enough from the shed roof for a glimpse of the CN Tower, to lift the makhrata from the hook it hung on over the sink and sharpen it. Another son would head for the rabbit hutch, tramping barefoot on strawberries along the way, screaming no rabbits, no. One son would play homemade cassettes, conceding Umm Kulthum songs to mother when she wondered what that racket was. The other son would lick strawberry off his feet and off the kitchen floor and dance and scream none of this music goes together.

Later at the table, meatless again for our bleeding hearts, father would thank us for remembering another obscure fast and remind us of proper technique for crossing the heart. One son would dutifully mimic, the other would experiment, presaging the Vogue.